I crossed the road, slowing down my pace a trifle. At the
corner of Imperial Institute Road I stopped and took out a
packet of cigarettes.
The footfalls ceased abruptly.
I lit a cigarette, put the packet way, and then moving
even more slowly I turned the corner.
I guessed I would be out of the detective’s sight for about
six seconds. The moment I turned the comer, I threw away the cigarette, and sprang forward in a mad, tearing run, my crepe- soled shoes making no sound on the pavement as I rushed across the road to the Imperial Institute. I darted up the steps and into the shadow of the big porch leading into the main building.
I pulled up, panting a little, and flattened myself against
the wall. I waited a moment or two, then I peered cautiously
into the street.
The detective appeared round the corner. He wasn’t
hurrying, and by his attitude he seemed quite confident that he would see me strolling ahead of him, but when he saw the
deserted street and no sign of me, he came to an abrupt stop.
I stepped back into the shadows of the porch and waited.
I heard him coming down the street. He suddenly broke
into a run, and moving fast, he reached the far end of the
street and looked up and down Queen’s Avenue.
I remained where I was, watching him. He stood hesitating, then he turned and began to walk back towards me.
There was a public telephone booth just inside the porch,
and moving over to it I opened the door and stepped inside,
closing the door behind me.
I still had a good view of the street through the glass
panel of the door, and I watched the detective pass. He looked up at the porch, hesitated, then came up the steps at a quick run.
I ducked down below the level of the glass panel, and
waited, my heart banging against my ribs. I heard him reach the fop of the steps and I could almost feel his eyes probing the shadows.
I expected any second he would pull open the booth door, and I got set to hit him if he did, but after a moment or so I heard him run down the steps and back to the street again.
I stood up, wiping the sweat from my face, and watched
him as he paused at the foot of the steps to look up and down
the street.
His heavy face was red and angry, and I guessed he
was cursing himself for taking his job too lightly. After some
hesitation, he set off towards Queen’s Avenue, turning the
corner and disappeared from my view.
I settled down to wait. I waited twenty minutes. The
hands of my wrist-watch seemed scarcely to move, but I had
to make certain the detective was sure in his mind that he had lost me. He wouldn’t be in too great a hurry to make a report, but when he did, two or even three patrol cars would sew up the district, and then my task of avoiding capture would be much more difficult.
At the end of twenty minutes, I went to the top of the
steps and looked to right and left. There was no one in sight, and without hurrying I walked down the steps and along the street toward Queen’s Avenue.
I didn’t hurry in case the detective had concealed himself
somewhere and was watching me. I felt n@ked as I moved
along the sunlit, deserted street.
I didn’t even pause at the corner, but turned into Queen’s
Avenue without hesitation.
The detective was within twenty yards of me, moving
Away from me, a disconsolate slouch to his shoulders.
He couldn’t fail to see me if he looked round, and for a
moment I very nearly panicked. Then I got hold of myself and
looked quickly at the number of the house near me. It was No.
7. Berry’s flat was in the house next door but one to No. 7, thirty yards or so farther up the road.
The detective kept on, and with my heart in my mouth, I
walked silently behind him. He passed No. 3. I was walking
now on tip-toe, scarcely breathing, praying that he wouldn’t look round.
He didn’t look round, but kept on up Queen’s Avenue towards Hyde Park.
I reached the steps leading to No. 3 and ran up them into
the shelter of the open doorway.
For a moment I stood still while I recovered my breath,
then I turned to examine the indicator board in the hall. The top fiat was the one I was looking for. 3a Jack Berry, 5th floor.
There was no lift and I started up the stairs. On the
second landing I went over to the window and looked into the
street.
I had only just got under cover in time. A police car was
swinging to a standstill fifty yards or so up the road, and the detective who had shadowed me was running towards it.
I moved away from the window and continued up the
stairs. There were five flats in the building, and five flights of stairs to climb. I met no one and beard nothing. It was still early: a few minutes after ten o’clock. The tenants probably were still in bed earning their Sunday rest.
I stopped outside Berry’s front door and putting my ear to
the panel I listened for some seconds, but I heard nothing.
I turned the door handle and pushed gently, expecting
the door to be locked, but it opened and I stepped into a small hall.
The first thing I saw brought me to an abrupt stop. By the
door stood two suit-cases and over them lay an overcoat and
a brown slouch hat.
It looked as if Berry were still here, and it was then I
wished I had a gun.
I closed the front door quietly and moved over to a door
across the hall. I listened against the panels, but again heard nothing. Very gently I turned the handle and pushed the door open just wide enough for me to see inside.
The room was a large one, well furnished with lounge
settees and arm-chairs, and against the far end of the room by the windows was a well-stocked bar.
I moved cautiously into the room, my eyes going to a
half-open door facing me which I guessed led into the
bedroom.
I crossed to the door, making no sound and peered into
the room.
Berry lay flat on his back on a divan bed. He was fully
dressed. His face was the colour of old tallow. His eyes were closed and he seemed scarcely to breathe.
By his side, within reach of his hand, was an automatic
pistol.
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